Shamrocketship

Yet another milestone I can't comprehend . . .

That is NOT What I Meant

Setting:  Tuesday evening, this week.  Daughter is working on a school paper due later in the week.  It's apparently a struggle.

Daughter:  Can I stay home tomorrow?

Mom:  Are you kidding?  You're three days away from a week-and-a-half break!

Daughter:  So, after the break I can stay home?

Mom:  Grrrrrrrr.

The Rewards of Science

Given my son's love of attempting to light anything and everything on fire, it is no wonder he is thrilled to death with his current science class.  This weekend, he demonstrated for me how well nuts burn.  You know, like Planter's nuts. 

Only I had no idea he was recreating a science experiment (having to do with caloric content) when I walked into the living room and saw him holding up a flaming almond skewered on the end of a knife. 

Given his history, I thought it was just another experiment of his own.

Sorry I didn't get any pictures of the flaming nuts.  But take it from me, if you ever want to start a fire and are short on kindling, they'll work. 

Cat-sup Got Your Tongue?

To my son:   I really really really wanna know why you had such a surprised look on your face the night we were sitting around the kitchen table on vacation and you stuck a fast-food-type packet of ketchup in your mouth and bit down on it and it burst and you got a mouthful of ketchup. 

You were expecting a different result?

Vacation Memories - Part 1

Setting:  By the brook (or stream, small river, creek, whatever it is properly called), down the hill from our cabin. /Note: Because of the rocky bottom and shore, it is absolutely necessary to wear a pair of extra sneakers while swimming or hanging out there./ Daughter, Son, and I are sitting on the rocky beach watching Sparky and his son Shaggy who are wading about 50 yards downstream.  They are far enough away that we have to yell to them if we want to be heard over the rushing of the water.  And sometimes, even yelling doesn't cut it. 

Son /looking at Shaggy's sneakered feet, yelling to him/: You wore socks?

Shaggy: Nah, I'm good.

We on the shore start cracking up. 

Shaggy:  Wait! Did you ask me if I want socks?

Son:  Why would I ask that when you're already wearing them? 

HTBT?

I Loves Me Some Good Karma . . .

From the first time they met, my son and Sparky's son Shaggy have hit it off. Two peas in a pod, they are.  One of their first shared activities was precisely the first time they met when we all had dinner out after seeing The Royal Black Watch play a show.  Shaggy and Deco finished their meals, and spontaneously began to build a "creation" on one of their plates with the leftovers.  I think in the end it resembled an island, a sea, a ship, and some trees, all made out of mashed potatoes, chicken fingers, fries, napkins and straws.  With embellishments of ketchup, mayo, sugar, salt and pepper, of course.

The two of them were quite proud of their "creation."  We took pictures, and I can't find them right now, but I remember the incident quite well.  I was more focused on the relationship between the two of them then on what the poor kitchen staff had to deal with afterwards. 

Here were are a while later, and the two of them are still good buddies.  And although they don't do it at every meal out, they have built many more leftover creations.   I believe I have remarked on a few occasions that maybe they shouldn't do that . . . someone's got to clean that mess up . . . but then, maybe that was just in my head. 

Anyhoo, Deco got himself a job this summer.  He's washing dishes at a restaurant, of all things. So we (minus Shaggy who was unavailable) went to eat there last weekend while Deco was working.  And we could not resist giving him a dose of his own creational medicine.  Sparky built an island, with some kind of volcanic thing in the middle spewing tartar sauce.  And then we took another empty plate and wrote "Hi Deco" on it with ketchup.

His boss got such a kick out of our story that he had Deco (rather than the waitress) bus our table in addition to performing the usual dishwashing chores.  I distinctly heard him mutter under his breath, as he carried off the plates, "never doing that again."

Now all we need to do is get Shaggy a dishwashing job, and the karmic circle will be complete.

Happens sooner or later, every time. 

Real Life - NOT

I was looking through my daughter's junior-year yearbook the other night and something jumped out at me.  Something scary.

In spite of the many AP classes, the tough and frequent homework, the essays, the labs, the "hard" teachers, the mandatory (surprising in this day and age) daily phys ed class, and many other rigors of a well-rated high school, I can see that these kids are in no way being prepared for life afterwards.

Why?

Because here, in the state of NJ, in a school with 400+ kids, they do not lock their lockers.  I saw this in the yearbook photos with my own eyes.  Shocking!

They don't lock them because they don't have to.

Because nothing gets taken.  No one steals. 

I ask you, am I being over-protective?  I mean, what if they graduate thinking it's OK not to protect your stuff?  Not to have locks and keys and alarms and booby traps in case someone tries to steal from them?  Isn't this basic education in NJ?  Are these kids going to be in for a rude awakening later on?  This situation is SO not real-life!

/But honestly, I love it.  LOVE it./

Congratulations, Deco!

Normally, I find eighth-grade graduations annoying.  We never had such things when I was a kid, and I just don't understand all the hooplah about finishing something you're supposed to finish and it's not the end of anything, really.  Still another four years to go. 

But my son graduated from eighth grade this week, and it was indeed a big deal.  The school he goes to is TINY by NJ standards.  One building houses K-8, and there is only one class per grade, with about 10-12 kids in that class.  So when they finally get done with their eight years,  I think the kids are all elated to be going on to a high school where they have the chance to meet a few new people. 

The graduation ceremony isn't as short as you think it would be with that few kids, but it's well choreographed.  There's the processional in, kids make their speeches, get awards, get diplomas, play the bells, processional out, and it's done. 

The speeches are obviously choreographed as well, with each kid starting off with a quote by someone or other, talking about the highlights of their time at the school, and ending with thanking family members and maybe a few special teachers.  Almost without exception, every kid mentioned their recent class trip to Boston as one of the highlights.  And no less than three also mentioned that the highlight of that trip was watching my son's new Envy phone fall off the duck tour vehicle and get run over by a car.  (One of them mentioning this was my son.  And no, I wasn't ever told before that it had been run over - just dropped.)

I'm not sure hearing those kids mention this as a highlight of their grammar school days made losing the $350 phone any less painful, but I'm glad someone was amused by it, anyway.  It'll be a long time before I forget it, too. 

Anyway . . . congratulations, Dec.  Other than that little incident, I am very, very proud of you!

Well THAT went fast

Seventeen years ago yesterday, at around at this time in the evening, my obstetrician was telling me that despite the fact that my water had broken an hour ago, he was going to go home to bed because, this being my first time and all, he'd probably end up inducing me in the morning.  I was not yet in labor. 

Three hours later, I was most definitely in labor, and the nurse was on the phone calling the doctor back to the hospital.  She'd miscalculated the centimeters, and instead of two, I was already at eight, and perhaps that explained why a few minutes earlier she'd told me "You don't seem to be dealing too well with the pain."  Duh.  I was in full transition without so much as an aspirin. 

Three hours after that, at 1:09 AM June 11, Emily Grace graced us with her presence. 

Em, remember when I posted that baby picture of your brother on his birthday?  Of him nekkid at the piano at around two years of age?  I wouldn't do that to you. Cuz I don't have any of you nekkid at the piano at around two years of age.  But I do have this one -

This was when you were so cute, the people at MotoPhoto hung an enlarged copy of this shot in their window as an advertisement.

Here's another that seems proof there was a time you really did love your little brother. 

And here's one demonstrating pretty near the exact moment you developed "attitude."  Which you know you've still got, right?

Sassy you!

And then, in the blink of an eye, here you are now.

And now . . .

And now . . .   

And by the way, Em, just how many self-shot pictures have you stored on my PC, trying to get one you like enough for your MySpace page?   HMMMMMM??????  Seems like THOUSANDS!!!!!!!!!

I love you - Happy Birthday!

History + The New Math = One Strange Family Tree

I was helping my daughter with a school assignment yesterday.  She's a freshman in high school, and had to draw a family tree.  So I got out all the records I had available and we got started.  We went up my side of her tree first, and she wrote down my name, birth date, birth place, date of marriage, location of marriage, and under "Died," we decided to put "TBD."

Then we covered my Mom's side of the family with any/all of the same bits of information.  Moved on to Dad's side where things got a bit more complicated. 

My father and his father shared the same name and middle initial.  So Dad was always known as "Jr." My grandfather was "Sr."  Both are referred to as "Pop-Pop" by their grandchildren.  We got their information down then moved up the tree further. 

Me:  OK, Pop-Pop's father was also Michael K******, but not the same middle initial. Or maybe it was. We don't know. There were four of them.

Em:  I thought you said Pop-Pop was "Jr."?

Me:  Oh, sorry.  I meant my Pop-Pop. Your Pop-Pop IS a "Jr."  His father was "Sr." and his father was also Michael K******.  That's three.

Em:  So my Pop-Pop's grandfather was the first? 

Me:  No.  He was the second. Of the four.  My father and his father had the same exact first name and last name and middle initial.  The guy before that was Michael K****** but we don't know his middle initial. 

Em:  Probably "J."  OK He's the first one.

Me:  No, there was a Michael K****** before him, too.  His father. Same name.

Em:  Then he'd be Michale K****** the negative first?

I was hysterical laughing for a few minutes.   When I could speak again, we filled in all the birth, death, and location information I had, and moved over to her father's side.

She wrote down his name, and I helped her with his birth year, location, etc.

Em:  So, what year was he married?  Same as you?

Me:  /Losing it again . . . / Um, yeah, Em.  That's the way it worked back then. We got divorced the same date too.